


The fork to your Soup

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Castiel is a Little Shit, Castiel is a Nosy Virgin, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Multi, Possibly Unrequited Love, Somnophilia, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, but this is no dubcon, everybody is clearly consenting through all of it, not everybody is aware of what is happening here and there, not really unrequited but they are idiots, sam is a sad puppy, well except for the times cas pulls his somnophilia stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel wants to experience first-hand what "feeling" is like. Good thing he has two human subjects to study on.</p><p>(Set somewhere between 05x03 and 05x13. Time is relative.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fork to your Soup

**Author's Note:**

> Gigantic thanks to my beta readers [bloodandcream](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/profile) and [canonsastiel](http://canonsastiel.tumblr.com/). You saved me and this project from desperation.

"Has Dean ever taken you to a brothel, Sam?"

It's sad that he has to actually take a moment and go through his memories to compose the correct answer. His brother has not exactly been a virtuous person. Ever. "Uhm. _No_."

"... Strange."

"Why do you ask?"

Cas frowns over his salad that Sam invited him to try. So far he has chewed on one sad piece of cucumber. "I assumed it was a common thing to do between friends."

The next two blinks are of the extremely slow kind. "He took you to...?"

"Yes."

Really now? Even for his brother, this is a whole new low.

"Dean's intentions were of the comforting kind," Cas clarifies. "It was a very emotional point of time. We were about to capture Raphael and I was prepared to die in the process. You and Dean were going separate ways at that time. He needed the comfort, too."

"So? Was it 'comforting'?"

"In case your question translates to 'did you succeed in sexual intercourse' then no, Sam, I did not." The plastic fork is abandoned. Sam finished his meal some time ago already and now wishes he hadn't. Nice. Your usual lunch-sex-conversation. "And I also highly doubt than Dean did. That night, at least."

"Alright. That sucks, I guess."

"I did not mind. Physical contact does not excite me as much."

"And neither does eating, huh."

Cas lowers his head. "I apologize."

"It's okay. Was worth a try."

The angel's face makes a funny movement that Sam cannot really read. Maybe it was just imaginary. "Trying always adds to one's wisdom," Cas exclaims.

 

"This is really good."

"Local brewery in, uh, Jacksonville Beach o' somethin'." The brothers chink bottles. "I liked the label."

A pin-up beauty beams at Sam. He rubs his thumb over her naked arm. "I figured."

They stare at the deserted coast and witness the waves coming and going. The sky is clear tonight, the wind not harsh enough to whip Sam's hair into his face. Baby's hood is warm from a ten hour drive. There is no hunt on their list, at least for today and not until they start looking for the next. Moments like these feel like bringing the world to a screeching hold, like missing the last step of a set of stairs. They never last long though, which Sam stopped grieving a long time ago.

"We've gotta find you some girl."

Sam's eyes don't leave the horizon. He pouts, shrugs, has another sip. "I'm alright."

"Dude. Not much longer and I'm gonna see that stick up your ass poking out of your mouth when you speak."

"That's not what it's about."

"Sure is."

"Hooking up ain't some 'universal cure'."

"I'm a doctor, Sammy. Listen to me when I tell you that _yes_ , it indeed _is_."

Sam doesn't know whether to scrounge his nose or laugh. "You should know, huh."

"Damn right."

"First Cas and now me?"

His brother laughs. "He told you?"

"Yeah." Sam huffs along, has another gulp. "Really, though. Bringing an angel to a place like that. Really. _Really_ , Dean?"

A shrug. "Thought he might enjoy it."

"He doesn't even enjoy _eating_."

"Well, what do you expect from offering him freakin' _lettuce_!"

"He told you."

"Yup."

Their constellation with the angel nowadays reminds Sam of when it was the two of them and then Dad. Exchanging messages over and about the third party, yeah, that was always kind of cheap. They're older now and he actually enjoys Cas' presence, so it's a little less depressing.

"You'd think we were strapped onto each other's backs, but the guy always manages to get to us alone."

"Maybe angels _do_ get lonely."

"See? Even angels, man. Come on, there's no shame in cravin' some lovin'."

"Could you please stop sounding like a creepy uncle?"

Dean's laugh comes from the top of his throat but doesn't sound as light-headed from the strong brew as Sam feels. There is little laughter in their lives right now, even less of the one Sam is responsible for. It's a nice change. He feels Dean's eyes on him, the search for a set of dimples in his cheeks that he more than happily delivers, even if only for a tired few seconds, just to please.

If there are any boundaries left between them that keep them from a direct mind-to-mind connection, they are feeble. Sam chews on his lip as he silently gives his _yes_ to Dean's _is this about the Lucifer-thing?_.

 _You are no monster, you know that, right?_ , he imagines hearing. He hums into the neck of his bottle.

The sand in front of them is imprinted with their footsteps. Sam wonders if the sun will heat it up as much as Dean's persistent gaze does with his stomach.

 _Can't get anyone involved with me at this state_. Not worthy, too dangerous - freak, alien, _monster_.

Sam imagines Dean's tongue wetting his lips before he purses them to nurse on his beer. They smack when they let go. There's a hint of tension, a question he maybe could read if he allowed it. Instead, Sam closes his eyes and concentrates on the coldwet drops of condensation between bottle and palm.

"Motel?" Dean asks nobody in particular.

He mutters a _whatever_ under his breath and feels like sixteen all over again.

 

"Hello Dean." Cas doesn't blink too often. Just another twist to his mojo, Dean figures. But now, he does. The air con _is_ making it dry in here, isn't it. "Is this a bad moment?"

"You do know that this is a rhetorical question."

"... Keeping your personal situation in mind, I assume that is correct."

"Congrats." Dean rubs his eyes and would yawn if he was awake enough for that. He makes a vague gesture to Sam's empty bed opposite to his own. "Sit down if you want."

"I don't mind standing."

"As long as you don't mind me lying."

"Of course not." A short pause that Dean uses to shut his eyes. "You look tired."

"Am," he rasps.

"Do you wish to be left alone and rest?"

"It's alright. Something on your mind?"

"Nothing in particular."

Yeah. As if Cas would just jump in and out for fun. But he _has_ been strange lately; well, even stranger than usually, at least. Dean doesn't give it much thought. "So, what? You're bored?" More rubs to his eyes. Maybe a coffee would be a good idea. Dean dismisses the idea again though, since he would have to get up to fix it. "I ain't too interesting at the moment, sorry."

"I had a premonition that you were being upset."

He sighs. "Apocalypses do that to people, Cas."

Angels have even less reservation than Dean has. Despite that, maybe thanks to sticking around the two of them so much, Cas might have picked up some of it along the way. It's the only explanation for his hesitation before he speaks again, a little softer now: "This is not what I mean."

Dean's eyes are dry when he peels them open; his eyelids a little like sandpaper. Cas is right next to him, upright and motionless but for the soft shifting of his hair under the air conditioner. The light from in between the unlovingly shut blends give him a soft glow in the otherwise unlit room.

He blinks. It's hard to keep steady under icy blue.

He wonders if Cas could... But no.

"Yes," Cas insists.

Dean frowns, tenses his jaw to start forming letters in his mouth-

"Yes." -but Cas is quicker.

It's like a fist hollowing him out from the inside, shoving stomach and liver up and up and up into his chest, easily past his diaphragm; next to his lungs and _there is no air_. He shoots up, almost knocks Cas over with his legs swinging over the bed and on the ground. "Since wh-"

"For a while now."

Dean's eyes slam shut and hands become fists against the mattress' edge. He swallows.

"Does it upset you?"

"Do I look _not_ upset to you?!"

A short pause before a wary _no_.

The room spins despite the usual anti-panic program running in Dean's head.

"I did not mean to hurt your privacy."

"Did a damn _shitty_ job at that, Cas!"

"Nothing devalues my opinion of you, if this is what your shame is about."

"What my shame is- Cas! What the fuck!" Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. Shit. _Shit_. "You can't go and spy on people's lives like that! This is not about you, okay; this is a thing about me and-" He stops himself there, can't say the name.

The fist right in front of his face doesn't faze the angel at all and if that doesn't make Dean want to punch him even harder...! "I understand that. And I respect that."

Frustration has Dean drop back on his ass, elbows on his knees, forehead in his hand. He takes the luxury of a moment to catch his breath and bring his heartrate into the vague field of "normal". Cas remains silent, waits. His patience is maddening. "... Did you talk to him about it?"

"I did not."

"Then don't. I swear to God, Cas, _don't_."

"... You're protecting him."

"It's my job." Despite what he says, what they promise each other; yes, it is. Nothing can or _will_ ever change that, maybe.

"I do not judge you. Neither of you."

"Well, nice, 'cause I'm judging myself enough for the both of us."

"... You fear that you forced him into it."

Dean stares at the back of the chair across the room, and yet he doesn't. "Since you can read my mind, go ahead and help yourself, asshole."

Cas remains silent for what feels like a session under Alastair did; worse. The thoughts are horrible by themselves - the fact that somebody is there to witness all of them is pushing bile up Dean's throat. The knuckles of his thumbs press into his forehead as he leans into them for support. He cannot stop the rush of memories, moments, tastes, sensations, noises, voice.

"I see," Dean hears eventually. He doesn't look up and has a feeling Cas doesn't look down. "You assume that he did not object in order to avoid hurting you."

"... He was just _a kid_..."

"Seventeen certainly _is_ the age of consent in many states."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, hard; swallows harder, clears his throat. "Doesn't make it any less wrong."

"I do not consider Sam's perception of it as something he was against at."

"You can't understand this." He shakes his head, looks up at Cas and his ever-unblinking eyes, the blank face. "No offense, but you can't."

"I understand your anger, Dean. I know a lot about you, or, more specifically, your way of perception. You are not a very positive person." Dean snorts. The angel now takes a seat in front of him and ducks his head to find Dean's eyes. Dean eventually allows the contact. "Your 'Church', as far as I perceived it, is very narrow in its teachings of love. Our Father never meant it to be limited. What you and Sam have, Dean, _is_ love. It has many faces."

He ducks his head again, thumbs both of his eyes. The next exhale comes long and thin through his nose.

"You are ashamed," Cas notes.

"We don't talk about it." And it's for the better like that. This here, putting it all out hurts even worse than Dean had expected. His decision to let it remain in the dark had been right after all.

"I see. And you don't have to, either."

Dean grunts under his frown. " _Thanks_."

"You're welcome." Dean glares up at him and witnesses the flush of a mistake wash over the otherwise solemn face. "Oh. Sarcasm. Sorry."

Dean almost smiles, almost. When he looks back up, Cas' lips are twisted into what could be an imitation of said smile. The angel is unable to hold it though when he starts speaking again. "Will you believe me when I tell you that this changes nothing about my sympathy for you two?"

"... A little."

"You are lying."

"Smart one, aren't cha." He sighs and allows himself to flop down on his back again. A last swipe of palms over his face before he decides that the painful part of the conversation is done with. Locked back up where it always is, Dean can ignore it. He grins through the webbings of his fingers. "Your taste in company is troublesome, buddy."

Cas makes a contented sound. "I enjoy spending time with the two of you. I see no trouble in this."

 

While his heart indeed pounds like a steam engine on full capacity, Cas' words do remain stuck on the back of Dean's head. Sam has his eyes closed, chin almost resting on his clavicle and a frown that is conflict and reservation and concentration all in one. Dean notices it because this time, he allows himself to _watch_.

If the world would have been ending nine years ago, if morals had been as meaningless as they are now, maybe they could have gotten away with it. But it hadn't. It hadn't, and yet they are able to look back, so far far far back and see a copy of this, of each other's hands in each other's underwear, of embarrassed silence under the honest proof that, yes: yet, they _are_ able to enjoy this.

It's always silent, always blind. There is nothing regular about this, no schedule, no trigger. Always, it's Dean who initiates - because this is how they are, how they work. Sam never asks for it. His little brother has grown but Dean cannot deny how he still sees that bony little brat who turned firetruck-red when Dean suggested lessons on how to put on a condom with the help of a banana. Sam avoided said fruits until he was sure the "latex-intoxicated" one would have rotted. That's how frigid his little brother is. And yet, as soon as he puts his enormous hand on Dean's dick, his technique so easily outshines most girls' Dean has encountered that it should be illegal. Which it is, in some states, obviously.

Dean never asked for permission since that first time. He had been so terrified that he even guessed that Sam could not hear him at all, but he had nodded, _nodded_.

It's easier than to look for girls; girls who could turn out as enemies or spies of enemies, and so on and so on. With pussy, it's not as great, obviously, because duh, Dean is not into dicks and also not his own brother, but hey, a hand on his dick not connected to his own arm is a win. A big win. And Sam is _good_ at it. _Because_ I'm _the one who taught him_ , Dean reminds himself.

It's always silent, always blind. Nothing but their mismatched breathing and the slick noises from where Dean refuses to let his eyes wander to. In the car, like most times recently, they leave a window cracked a tiny bit just to have the outside noises muffle them. Rushing of a river, chirping of crickets, cicadas, busy highways.

Girls became less for Dean after Hell. On bad days, foreign bodies under his hands make him want to hurl and gnaw his own toes off. On good days, for a few glorious seconds, a well-earned orgasm can make him forget that he is as much as being alive.

Girls never were many for Sam. As far as Dean knows, most of them are dead. With Lucifer on Sam's heels, he feels like more of a threat than ever before. On good days, Sam smiles, eats, sleeps. On bad days, Dean finds him.

What tips him off is always a little different but never too far off the usual menu. Today, it was a second too long of a painful frown, that devastated expression his brother sometimes has. When they failed to convince Dad to stay for another week, another test, another birthday party, Sam would look like this. When Dean had to tell him _no, Sammy, you can't come along this time_ , Sam would look like this. When there was no hope, no ground underneath his feet, Sam would look like this. And Dean cannot have that.

Eyelids heavy, fist tight and sticky and _full_ , Dean wonders if that is what Cas meant, what Cas made out in the mess of what he calls his more or less conscious mind. This is a way of grooming each other, of making each other feel better. A really really fucked up way of support that, in the current situation, no one else can give to them.

If Cas saw this; memories of this? Dean's eyes flutter closed.

If he did, he saw Sam like he does, did; saw how it feels to have a hand around Sam's dick, where the veins are, the give of it under his muscles; saw how strangely rewarding it is to get his hand covered in warmth, stickiness, to be assured that he did good.

Dean finishes faster than usual this time and doesn't think much of it.

 

They are all but innocent and he is all but unaware of that. It would be disrespectful to call this "meaningless" in his situation as it is now, but, well, another mistake more or less does not change anything about his original crime of disobedience, does it.

When he intends to watch them without their knowledge - and he tested this thoroughly - he watches them _without their knowledge_. Excellent hunters, yes, and Castiel knows how receptive Sam used to be to paranormal activities... but _him_ , they cannot detect.

It's good this way. They're different around him, even if only barely; it distorts his observations. They talk more. Sam smiles more, hunches over more deeply. Dean stands taller, wears his jaw and shoulders tighter. His presence does that to them. Castiel is not one of them.

It's fascinating, really, even while understanding barely _a_ _fraction_ of what is the brothers' relationship. There is a lot of angelic virtue in what they do - the boundless loyalty, the concern for each other's safety. And yet, and this is so much bigger than what Castiel thought was possible. There is so much he cannot _begin_ to grasp.

He enjoys watching them. They are walking test subjects for him to study. In between his searching episodes for Him, Castiel more often than not plays with the thought of applying what he learned from them on other humans, to get in contact with them, even if only for a little chat. It gets... _empty_ , sometimes, without the voices of his brothers and sisters in his ears. In the end, he usually discards the idea and goes to see the brothers instead. Around them, he doesn't have to pretend to be someone (or rather some _thing_ ) he is not. They accept him and are grateful for his advice, service. Castiel imagines that maybe they enjoy his presence in itself as well. He cannot know though. Things like this are told in a way he is unable to read. He just has to study harder.

The intimacy is as much as a surprise as it is natural. It is an act of compassion and, as far as Castiel understands human sexuality, rather _practical_. Sam and Dean are very stressed before, and then less stressed afterwards. They do not look or seem too pleased with what they are doing during those times. They never mention it. If Castiel wouldn't know any better, he would have thought this was a common practice between people that are close to each other, common in a natural way that turns discussing it redundant.

But he _does_ know. And it puzzles him.

Sam on his own is a strange phenomenon. Without Dean, he seems nervous and at the same time more relaxed. As if he didn't trust the situation, as if he awaited bad news around every corner - and yet was unaware of said possibility. A child, ingenuous of what exactly it _is_ that makes him fear the darkness. Castiel feels safe around him, though. Sam beams with some kind of serenity and gentleness. Castiel revels in hearing him speak.

"What do you enjoy about physical contact, Sam?"

Eyes go wide, because Sam thinks fast and translates what Castiel hopes is clear enough of a question. He clears his throat and rubs his forehead with the one, flips a page of the book in front of him with the other hand. "I, uhm. Is this. Why- why do you ask?"

"I intend to understand," Castiel explains. "Pleasure is substantial to the human individual. Except for one single species of apes, your kind is the only animal that mates face to face. It is an extraordinary process, I assume."

"It's, uhm. Different for everyone."

"How is it for _you_?"

Sam rests his gaze on the book's pages, more to the left. They taught him that this means someone is trying to remember how they had felt like in the setting of a certain memory. Lying looks different, but Dean stopped teaching him the signs after Castiel failed and failed and failed to distinguish even a handful of them. "Special," Sam says eventually. "Intimate. I can let go. I have to trust my partner. I can't do it with anyone."

 _In contrast to Dean_ , Castiel hears, but isn't told.

_"What do you enjoy about physical contact, Dean?"_

_Eyes squint at him, because Dean thinks efficiently and goes through various options of what Castiel's question could imply. He prefers to get things right on the first try. "_ Sex _, you mean?"_

_"Yes," Castiel answers._

_Dean's eyebrows shove themselves up his forehead, the corners of his mouth downwards until his lips pout in almost comedic fashion. "Buddy, you_ had _your chance to some good first-hand experience, and you blew it."_

 _"How is it for_ you _?"_

_Dean's eyes roll. Together with the sharp sigh, this a clear sign for annoyance. "I'm not in the mood for dirty talk, Cas."_

_"My question is of purely educational intentions," Castiel clarifies in hope to calm Dean's temper which he is not sure of how he managed to upstir this time._

_"'Flowers n bees talk' then?"_

_He frowns. "'Bees'? What-"_

_Dean snorts. "Forget it."_

_There is silence for a while. Dean's fingers do not remain still for a single second, nor does Dean look at him. Castiel cannot see his eyes but imagines them as restless as his hand's digits._

_"Relaxing," Dean grunts under his breath, quiet and fast as if he hoped Castiel would miss the information. Dean should know better about the extent of his curiosity. After a while, he adds: "The girl has to be cute. Big tits, nice ass. Not exactly needs to be 'gracious' o' somethin'. There's this..." He snaps his fingers several times, head tilting up. He's searching for the right words. "It's unique; I can't name it. This,_ attraction _? A special something. When that's missing, there's no fun to it."_

_Castiel nods. "I see." He puts the words out there carefully; half lie, half statement. Dean looks unimpressed and changes the subject._

Castiel nods. "I see." He puts the words out there carefully; one third lie, two thirds statement. Sam smiles at him and seems relieved, maybe because he was able to help him out.

There is more to it, so much more. It's only a small selection of opinions but Castiel favors the image they create. Sexuality seems to be a way to feel freedom and yet intensify the bond to one's partner at the same time. A lot of emotion seems to be involved. Castiel wonders if he will eventually come around to truly understand it.

In the Impala, Dean leaves his eyes open to observe Sam for the first time that Castiel knows of. It changes a lot, adds a lot. The two men look lost most of the time of it, even though they are obviously practiced. It happens more often now, too. Dean's body relaxes easier now with the distance of months to those forty years. Sam looks uneasier under the pressure of his newfound fate as the Devil's vessel, close to haunted. It gets harder for him to achieve this state of "letting go", as he put it. Under Dean's hands though, he visibly is better than without them.

Dean's eyes are full of love and concern. The longer it goes on, the more unfocused they become, eventually drift off.

Castiel's chest feels strange when he eventually sees clearer in the depths of Dean's thoughts.

 

It takes a while for Castiel to get over the initial hesitation. He _has_ touched Dean before, after all, even though it had been of practical matter. Occupying a human vessel is still strange after millennia of matter-less existence between spectrums of light. Being aware of every cell is distracting, paralyzing. It takes a while to get used to actual sensation.

The first mistake is that he starts with Dean's _cheek_. It's too intense, the stubble like needles to the sensitive pads of his fingers. Temples are better, soft, oh, "soft" is such a good word for it, like a sigh, a flutter. _Soft_.

Other parts feel different, every bump and curve like an entirely new material. Dean's body is warm and relaxed in his sleep. Castiel replays the sensations while looking at the awake Dean, full of life and power and with every muscle aware of its task. Hands folded on tables or loosely dangling by his sides, he wonders what it would feel like to touch Dean in this state.

The first time Castiel dares to do it, it's a mutual gesture. Dean's arm around him takes him by surprise, it's heavy and warm and Dean's soul rushes through his veins along with his blood without _a_ _hint_ of the human's understanding. But Castiel knows. His palm finds a space between the scapulas, one fist's width from the heart. It's warmer here. Castiel imagines a smell, salty, rough; imagines that this is sweat from where Dean has raised his arm. Dean pulls off of him with a burst of laughter because the moment in which the touch was part of a show is over.

Sam stirs heavily in his sleep. After watching him while petting his rather deeply gone brother, Castiel accepts the challenge of widening his range of test subjects on this matter. The younger Winchester is an entirely different substance in himself. He smells rougher, more sour ( _sour_ , like a _hissing_ , like what it does to the roof of Castiel's mouth) and feels leaner, harder - but never less smooth, no. Where Dean is like the soft fabric of his flannels, Sam is like the Impala's interior. Like leather, like animal skin. Castiel recoils at the thought. Sam would hate to be compared to an animal, let alone an inanimate object.

Advertisements and billboard charts start to make more sense. They sell _sensations_ more than they sell actual _things_. When there is a picture of a woman opening her mouth wide to fit a hamburger inside of it, it is supposed to evoke the feeling of her _mouth_ , not the actual consumption of the _food_. Pieces are starting to come together. He understands. For the first time, Castiel feels arousal.

"Hey," Dean startles him, "Watch it!"

No hand is needed to shove him away; Dean's eyes are enough.

Dean looks surprised. Castiel wonders what he looks like in the human's eyes. "Private space," Dean reminds him under a frown.

The next time he finds Dean asleep, Castiel does cross the last few inches between their mouths.

 

"Does Cas seem... _different_ to you?"

"Oh my God, THANK YOU! Already started thinkin't was all in my head."

Sam makes a troubled face. "He's... _touchy_."

"I know, right?! Like a fuckin' _toddler_." One beer is opened; two. One is passed over. "When he goes all Tarzan slash Jane face-exploring on me, I'll start clipping wings."

"You realize you're the _Jane_ in this metaphor?"

"You realize you're the _vic_ in this murder?"

Sam chuckles a breathless laugh and follows Dean's example of nipping the first mouthful from his bottle. "He's making progress though."

"In what? His twelve step plan on how to become your typical creepy, trench coat wearing molester?"

"No."

"Well, good, 'cause he's on like, step eleven and a half."

"You're hard on him, man. He's trying to blend in."

"How is that 'blending in'? We do not walk around hugging people to death."

Sam frowns over his beer. "He doesn't hug."

"He wants to, though! I can see it in his _eyes_." A gulp, shudder. "Fuckin' creepin' me out, man."

"Like he's staring into your soul," Sam testifies. Dean nods in silence.

They drink for a while, the buzz of the more than crappy heater the atmosphere to this.

"Did he. I mean."

Sam looks up.

Dean clears his throat. "Did he do anything funny to you?"

"'Funny' as in _what_?"

"Forget it."

"What? No! What do you mean, 'funny'?"

There was this case once where a guy's tongue was so utterly and completely swollen that he almost choked to death in Sam's hands while Dean and Dad havoc'ed his entire flat to find that one damn hexbag. When he looks at his brother now, he wonders if he should grab the chair and go for the drywall.

"I think he knows," Dean croaks.

Sam simply stares at him, blinks once, twice. Before realization hits him like a brick, Dean is already a pale mess holding on to the counter for dear life. He drops his head, stares at the tips of his shoes under the table. When he tries to inhale, there is no space for the air. "... Since when?"

"Beats me."

"How...?"

"He kind of... can read. _Minds_."

"... What?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you know?"

Dean cringes under Sam's eyes. The bottle is nothing more than a weight in his fingers. "He kinda might've, uh. Told me."

"'Told you'?" First spikes of anger. "When?"

"Dude-"

" _When_ , Dean?"

 _Fifty eight days ago_ , Castiel thinks.

"I- I don't know! Weeks, maybe? Months?"

If the roles were reversed, Dean would yell, curse, send his fist into the next best piece of furniture. But this is Sam, and Sam opens his mouth, yes, but then he bites back whatever there is, and then wipes his palm over his face, into his hair. He huffs what could be a hiss, a sigh; something in between. "You're priceless. _Priceless_. You know that?"

No answer from Dean. _Rhetorical question_ , Castiel concludes.

Again, Sam sighs, deeper now. His fingers start peeling the label from the bottle in front of him. "The first time that we talk about this, an-"

"Oh no, Sam, nononono. Stop _right_ there!"

"What?! You are allowed to mention it, but I'm _not_?"

"I didn't _mention_ it, I just- We're _not_ having this conversation!"

"Not now or not ever?!" _Painful_ , Castiel labels. Sam sinks in on himself where he almost jumped off his chair a moment ago. "… Don't even answer that."

"I'm going out," Dean announces with a tight mouth, legs already bolting to run.

"Whatever."

The door bangs shut. Sam's thumb alternates in smoothing the moist paper label back in place and peeling it farther off.

  


Castiel finds Dean in a liquor shop where he exchanges a handful of dollar bills for a bottle which most certainly does not contain beer. When he exits, Castiel materializes a few feet away under a streetlight.

Dean might consider punching him, judged by the way he glares over at him. "Not a good moment, Cas," he is told.

"I am aware," Castiel answers.

He follows Dean in silence, down the road, around a block and then another. Dean discarded the lid of the bottle after the first few steps and takes generous gulps every other minute. It takes a third of the golden brown liquid to add a sway to his movements.

At some point, Dean slumps down on the sidewalk. Castiel wonders if Dean is staring at something in the park on the other side of the road, but ends up dumping the idea. It takes some more sips from the bottle from Dean and a couple of plans on how to do it more or less casually until the angel sits down next to him. They stare together, elbows on their knees, and Dean does not complain about Castiel sitting so close.

There is no point in informing Dean about the fact that Castiel has been watching them. Not just yet, at least. Maybe another time. "What happened?"

Dean groans, wipes his mouth, then his nose. "Why does it always have to be so… Fuck." Another sip. "Always so fuckin' complicated. Why can't it just… I dunno. Work out? I dunno."

Castiel blinks into what must be darkness for Dean's eyes. "Is this a rhetorical question?"

Dean barks a bitter laugh, dry despite the liquid in his system. "Not really."

"In that case, it is complicated because you are making it so, Dean." When no reaction comes, Castiel turns his head to look at Dean. The man glares at him, but there is wonder, too. "I assumed you meant the relationship with your brother."

"I did," Dean confirms.

"Good. Then you have my answer."

"… Little more detail, if you don't mind."

"Oh." Castiel looks down at his hands. "You... seem to have the same interest in maintaining your current state of being. You enjoy each other's company. To be completely honest, I do not see where there should be a problem."

"Aren't you an angel of the Lord?"

"I am."

"And it just so happens you haven't read his newest thing yet or what? Dude." Castiel gets a rough elbow between his ribs. It's a numb little sting, then warmth. His hand comes up to feel the spot under his coat. "He's my _brother_. You don't do this kind of shit with your _brother_."

Castiel remembers how to shrug. He imagines this is a good time to shrug. "Your feelings are pure. I see no flaw in it."

"Oh my God," Dean snorts in his chuckle, has another swig. His eyes stay averted from the angel. "This is the cheesiest talk I have ever had."

"Is that good?"

"Not in particular."

"Oh." Dean is warm next to him, warmer with every new mouthful. His blood vessels widen due to the chemical structure of his drink, making him beam like the ball of warm, tender light that he indeed _is_. At least in Castiel's eyes. "What would it change if you were not related by blood?"

Dean's eyes search the ground where it is bare and featureless. He sees different things there, but Castiel decides against taking a glimpse at them. "A whole damn lot," Dean concludes after a while and closes his lips around the bottle's opening.

"I imagine you would be the same as you are right now. Close, loyal. It would not change much."

"Maybe enough."

"You would still be hating yourself like you are doing now."

Dean laughs. It sounds tight.

"It is the way you are," Castiel explains.

Dean's head hangs low. His back is round and open, so vulnerable.

Something in Castiel makes him put his hand in the middle of it.

Dean tenses, did not expect the touch, but eventually relaxes. He seems tired. The warmth of his own blood in combination with the low light must be triggering his pineal gland. Castiel lets his palm wander in small circles, like he often does when Dean is asleep. The friction feels nice for both himself and obviously Dean as well; Dean, whose breathing becomes even calmer when Castiel does this. Sam reacts the same way. There might be a pattern to this.

"Not many have what you two have," Castiel tells him, his righteous man, just another little lamb on Father's blue planet full of flaws and misery.

"Yay to us," Dean mutters.

He wants to hug Dean. If he put both his arms around him, how warm would he be? His weight would feel good against his body, he is sure of that. "You are about to fall asleep."

"Am not."

"Should I bring you home?"

"Ugh, no angel-express, thanks. Lemme just. Just _walk_."

"Let me help."

"… A'right."

Dean's arm around his neck, Castiel supports him. If he was precise, he would call it "carrying". It is a half body hug and Castiel dwells on the satisfaction it gives him. Dean needs him and Castiel can be of help. It's good.

Sam opens the door with worry written all over his face but lets it harden immediately at what greets him. Castiel tries to look as apologetic as he can while Sam directs him where to drop his intoxicated brother.

"It's three AM," they are informed.

"Di'n't get the memo tha' I was on a damn curfew here."

"Dean," Castiel interferes, "Your brother was being _worried_. There is no need for unfriendly behavior."

The bedframe creaks under Dean's body, and Dean's body under the effort of being thrown around like this. No protest comes whatsoever.

Castiel turns to check on Sam. He can smell the beer on him, sees his fists tight next to his hips. Sam towers before the bed, before Castiel, and this vessel is small in contrast to the man. It's strange looking up to a human.

He decides that it is for the best to stay by the brothers' sides for the remains of this night. Since Dean is already asleep, Castiel asks for Sam's approval instead and actually gets it, even though just warily. Distrust is the last thing that he wants. He will have to take care of this soon. But for now, he just watches.

When he pays attention to it, Castiel now is able to feel _cold_. He is clothed and the room is not low in degrees, but remaining completely still eventually gets to his vessel's tissue.

If he wants this to advance anytime soon, he will have to start getting bolder, Castiel calculates.

The coat and jacket are shrugged off. The shoes turn out as somewhat of a challenge, but he manages eventually. In his alcohol-induced hazes, Dean tends to sprawl, which makes it rather difficult to find enough space to lie down next to him. On his side, back to Sam and facing Dean, it works.

Castiel continues his watch from close up. Dean's body heat is soothing, the rise and fall of his chest a steady rhythm like the come and go of waves on the shore. Here, all smells are closer, more intense. Castiel recognizes the street they were sitting in, the mud clinging to the back of Dean's jeans from the curb. Alcohol is sweet-sour in this stomach, processed down to more simple carbohydrates, sugar particles which are to be absorbed into this blood stream.

Once more, Castiel is glad that he has no need to blink. He would hate to miss any fragment of a second of this.

 

Sam prefers looking up at people rather than looking down, Castiel starts to realize. "We've gotta talk," he is told.

Castiel gives a nod and sits down on the opposite side of the booth. Just for show, he contemplates ordering something and eyes the menu.

Sam's fingers are dancing in between loose and tight around his halfway filled mug. "What exactly was going on last night?"

The angel's eyes remain on the simple letters. "I watched the two of you, like I requested."

"You lay in his _bed_."

"… It upsets you."

"It _confuses_ me," Sam corrects, brows in a tight crease. Castiel can hear that grit of teeth despite the noisy diner business.

"There is no need for confusion," he assures.

" _Is_ ," Sam insists with a jerk of his head.

Castiel looks up at him. He opens his mouth but tests the words inside of his head before he spills them. "You are jealous."

A lot happens in little time, all in Sam's face, his entire body. Still, Castiel refuses to read minds. He is better at understanding them now - he wants to do this by himself. The human way.

Sam hesitates but in the end remains silent. His eyes are pinned to the contents of his mug.

"Do you know that he told me about the extent of your relationship?"

"… Yeah."

"Does it bother you that I know about it?"

Eyes dart to the window, out, farther out; back. Sam's nostrils flare with a powerful exhale.

Castiel nods. "I understand."

"Cas… Man, no. I mean. It's just…" A sigh. Castiel continues to study Sam's face. "We never. We never talk about it. It's one of those stupid, unwritten rules. That's just how it's… how it's always been."

"The handling of it bothers you."

"It's been going on for quite some time now." The man pinches his nose, shifts in his seat, rubs the back of his neck. He bends over lower, a bit like Dean on the sidewalk last night. Castiel would like to try a smile at the familiarity but remembers in the last second that this type of expression would be inappropriate in a conversation like this. "And after he asked me to get back together again, that we would start over… Well, maybe I was just being dumb, you know. I thought we could finally get past this."

The funny feeling again, right in his chest. It confuses Castiel. "You wish to end it?"

Sam glances at him, over at the booth next to them, out at the passengers on the sidewalk. His lips curl in what could be disgust. "Mind a walk?"

Castiel does not.

 

"I see."

"Yeah? Well, I don't."

"You and your brother are very much alike, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Both of you tend to overanalyze. I feel like I should tell you that neither yours nor your brother's thought patterns are exactly rational."

"… Thanks."

"However. This very much explains your jealous tendencies."

"…"

"There is no reason for it, though. I assure you that."

"You think?"

"I _know_." The air is clear. They walked past the spot Castiel remembers from last night without Sam's knowledge. "What Dean and I have… it is an exceptional, supernatural bond. But what is connecting the two of you, Sam, is not any less powerful. Maybe even stronger. I am no human. I tend to… not understand everything your species does."

"It makes you sad," Sam states.

Castiel comes to a halt. Sam mirrors it.

Pity in Sam's eyes has no obligation to be there, Castiel thinks. He wonders. "I'm not blind," he is told, "and neither is Dean. Or anyone, really. _You like him_."

"I like both of you," the angel insists.

Eyebrows lower and pull creases in the space in between. "Not like that. That way you look at him... that's only for Dean."

"If this is what it looks like, I apologize."

"No, it's okay. Really."

"No." A step closer. "Sam, I want you to know that I do not favor your brother over you. The joy your friendship gives me is equal to what Dean's does."

A chest that is not his own swells. Sam wavers in his stand. Castiel takes another step towards him.

"I saw you kissing him," Sam croaks.

The familiar sensation of Sam's mouth under his vessel's is spiked with tension that usually isn't there. This is it, Castiel thinks, the _difference_. Consciousness. Life. Danger. Sam's gasp startles the angel but he swallows it like a precious present, which it is.

When Castiel retreats, the Winchester is frozen.

"Your brother obviously has a heavier sleep than you do, Sam."

At the next blink, Castiel is gone.

 

They either are even fewer times apart from each other or Cas pays special attention to not meet them when they are on their own. Sam cannot tell if this is better or worse. The angel walks through this thick early-summer night in the middle of their trio now which seems to be the best option. He actually looks _happy_.

"You're in a good mood lately, Cas," Dean states over the napkin that held a post-work donut moments ago. The collar of his fed suit is now sprinkled with icing sugar. "Or. Any mood, really."

Sam keeps his mouth screwed shut and practices a polite expression. The right moment to enlighten his brother about the recent angel-centered events hasn't exactly come yet.

"That is correct." Since when do angels _smile_ , oh Jesus, that is just _creepy_. "I am making progress."

"In what?"

"In my studies of the human nature. Of _you_."

Dean tosses a short confused look and then the crumbled up piece of paper. "Wow. Not creepy at all." His brother is not fazed by the new fondness. That lucky, oblivious bastard.

Cas' voice is smaller when he adds: "I think I'm... starting to develop _feelings_."

Sweat breaks from Sam's pores just like laughter breaks from Dean's throat. "Oh man. My advice: turn that shit down before it's too late. It's one of those things that you think is cool to have, but when you end up sitting in the mess of it, you kinda realize why your parents told you not to get involved with it."

Sam wants to apologize for his brother but that would kind of blow his cover. Instead, he loosens the tie of his fed suit when Cas does not completely crumble under the humiliation.

The angel pouts. _Pouts_. "It has broadened my understanding of the human kind. I am sure it will be of value in future cases."

Both brothers stare down at the individual hand on their individual shoulder.

Castiel takes turns looking for their eyes, his lips in the slightest curl of a smile. "I am starting to understand your fascination of touching each other."

Before Sam can hold him back, Dean has dragged and slammed the angel into the nearest alleyway. Quick reactions and practiced grips heave Dean back and off the rather unimpressed Cas. "Dean, STOP!"

"Let me go!!"

"Was it inappropriate of me to-"

"DAMN RIGHT IT WAS!!"

"I apologize."

"FUCK YOU!!"

"Dean!"

"No, Sam, SERIOUSLY! Cas, this is not YOUR BUSINESS. NONE OF THIS."

Over Dean's shoulder, Cas' smile is long gone. But it's not solemnity that shows on his face. Sam's guts knot up in guilt.

"I am your friend," the angel states, maybe more to himself than to them, to Dean, "and I have the desire to be close to you. I want to help you."

"This is not _helping_ ," Dean hisses. Sam gives an unnecessarily rough squeeze to his shoulders that makes his brother grunt. Asshole.

"I see that this entire topic stresses you out, both of you. I do not enjoy knowing you are unnecessarily torturing yourselves."

" _Unnecess_ -"

"He thinks we are exaggerating, Dean."

"What?! Oh COME ON; gimme a BREAK!"

" _It is not fair_."

They stumble, hesitate. Dean is breathing heavily in Sam's arms, against his front, and Sam only notices it as they stand still.

Castiel gleams at them, a single opponent with his back against a wall and a tangled mess of brothers to his front. "It comes naturally to you, I know. But others have to try hard for this. _I_ have to try hard for this."

The space between angel and wall becomes wider, between angel and brothers shorter. Sam feels his gulp vibrate against Dean's back.

"It is a blessing what you are able to do. To _feel_. Why can't you appreciate it?"

If Dean would have picked up his struggles against Sam's restraints, at this point he could have freed himself, avoided the palm to his chest. If.

The angle is strange but Sam can feel it bolt through his brother anyway, could as well if they were standing a few feet apart. It's almost as if he was kissed himself; Cas's stubble like a phantom from that afternoon still against his chin. There's harsh repulse in Dean's chest, the hint of an effort to scream, to push the angel away with every accessible amount of power - but Cas' other hand cradles Dean's cheek, barely a touch at first before it connects entirely.

A soft sound, a little wet. Cas surges forward again. Again. Then cranes his neck, tiptoes. Maybe Dean got heavier, maybe Sam's knees got weak. Anyway, Cas' impossibly manages to reach his mouth, too.

It goes on for a while, a silent back and forth. Their hearts usually aren't this close to each other, so Sam wonders if they always gallop in the same rhythm, perfectly in tune. One inside his chest, one outside. Cas presses them together tightly, runs his hand that is not curled along Dean's face through Sam's hair, so timidly as if he was afraid it could hurt him. Everything is warm. There is no more aggression, only emptiness. Sam is not sure if this is better.

Cas' arm comes over his shoulder, reaches down his back. Tighter, closer, Sam becomes aware of the angel's impossibly clean scent. It's not human or anything else he knows, really; rather reminds Sam of places he has been. Bobby's at Christmas Eve 1995. Jess' bedroom. Something that might have been his nursery once, before the fire.

They are wrapped, surrounded by him. Dean is heavy in his arms, almost lifeless, as if he was asleep. Cas' hand around his neck allows Dean to bury his face in crispy white shirt, just like the angel nuzzles the few square inches of Sam's nape of the neck that he is able to reach.

He hears, _feels_ him inhale, exhale.

With his head tipped backwards, Sam closes his eyes.

"I don't like this."

His brother can look as much of a kicked dog as he wants, Dean will not change his mind. "Dean."

"I don't LIKE this!" he repeats, firmer. His eyes don't leave the angel.

The little fucker holds their contact. "This is conflicting your pride." These questions without question marks? Dean _hates_ them.

"Your damn crystal ball told you that?"

The smallest frown he has ever seen on this face. "I have not read your minds in weeks."

"Oh yeah? Well, what a shame, Cas, 'cause I'm sending you a private message _right now_."

"It is not hard to guess that it is of profane nature."

He zapped them back into the motel room. Dean glances at the door, then at Sam. To his frustration, his brother does not budge the slightest, no, better yet, _shakes his head_ at the silent nod towards the exit to this worst of jokes.

"No," he adds.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" He wants to pace the room, to bring space between them, between what has just happened; between _everything_ and him. He balls his fists, flexes his fingers, then uncurls them again. Huffs, grunts. Curls his lips inwards to his teeth. They watch him. _They watch him_. "Is this. Is this some kind of _joke_ , Sam? Is this _revenge_?"

His brother sways at the words, catches his stupid giant body but not his kid face, his little brother face, his _please Dean_ face. "Wha… Revenge? For what?"

His jaw ticks. "You know."

Sammy's face stays hurt but Dean won't budge. He's said enough about this, too much already.

"Dean thinks he forced himself on you sexually."

If his eyes were Angel Blades, Dean would have a giant problem less in this room. But even then, Sam would still be huffing this breathless laugh. _Laugh_.

"Dean," his brother starts, hand on and over his own face _and Dean will not have this._

"Stop."

"Do you really think I-"

"SAM."

His ears are ringing. Cas pushes back into his field of vision, a blur of black and blue, more blue than anything in this shitty light. It's always _blue_ , isn't it. At night. Cold spectrum of light. Dean does not remember Cas' hand as this warm. Maybe he did not pay enough attention to it lately. But why should he? It's only a hand.

It drifts up his jaw, temple, rests on his forehead. Two fingers. "I can help you relax," Cas offers.

"I'm calm already," Dean assures. He really is, suddenly, and doesn't know why.

The fingers become a palm, make a soft swipe back in place to where it lay in the alleyway. Dean is aware of his own breathing in this emptiness.

"Good," Cas says before he kisses him.

Stubble feels weird. Something in his head tells him that it is not supposed to be there while something else wonders why Cas tastes like Dad's aftershave smelled, like Mom's apple pie and baby Sammy's milky-rich top of the head. Dean hears a sigh and cannot connect it to any of the three people in this room.

Before a hand wraps around his neck and Dean's eyelids flutter, he has not been aware that they even slid shut. The room is not existent, no sound, no light, only Cas' lips and his hand and that other hand, and he opens his eyes and sees _Sam_.

They were trained for this, maybe even born. Silent conversations held between eyes (don't have to be complete pairs; one, shit, _half of one_ _each_ is enough) are deep and scratch at what Dean guesses could be the hollows of his vertebras, where everything is so raw and sensitive that even a small notch is enough to shove you deep down under. And Sam _scratches_ there, has the actual _nerve_ to carve himself in there, to occupy room Dean needs for himself, not much but this is _his_ , his alone.

But Sam's eyes scream, plead.

Their lips connect somehow.

A soft nudge from Sam's chin and Dean can feel his teeth behind the soft curtain of flesh, lips, a place he shoved food and toothbrushes and girls in, but never _Dean_. Sam needs to be whole. Sam needs to be spared from the caves Dean rips into people.

Dean's jaw goes softer when Sam's hand does, too, and Sam's exhale on it is so ragged and violent and so completely utterly _his brother_ that Dean's body moves despite rationality, despite cartilages in their noses and bone in their foreheads and pulls them into one.

They stay like this for a while, maybe move; it doesn't matter. Cas is between them and eventually creates a space for himself to fit in, roughens where Sam was cleanly shaven; turns to meet Sam's trembling mouth. There's breathing in threefold, off and soft and warm. The tips of Dean's fingers feel smooth beige fabric before they slide underneath, to black first and white later. It jumps there, right there where he touches, then the entire angel. Dean would laugh if he could. If.

He is told "I've got you" but barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears, _blood_. Between them, it's better than Castiel thought it could be. They're everywhere, covering him, enthralling. Sam pulls some of his clothing from his shoulders and Castiel barely has enough control left to help with little shrugs. Dean's hands get rougher, over Jimmy's stomach and up his chest -no, _his_ , Castiel's, _he_ feels it!

 _Sensation_. Castiel closes his eyes for the first time in days. The white sparks behind the lids are in harmony with the electronic impulses of his nerves. He would cry if he could. If.

Sam's hands are bigger, cover so much of Castiel that it's almost scary. But it's Sam's, gentle, kind Sam, Sam who kisses his neck and hums little whimpers that Castiel remembers from when the man is asleep. Dean pushes him back into Sam's chest but follows, leaves no gap in between.

Castiel's chest is felt up through his shirt. In the daze of pleasure, he only barely remembers, but then stutters his apology for the insufficient size of his breasts.

He is growled at against his mouth. "If you'd just shut up, that'd be really great right now."

A nod before he is flipped around, Sam at his lips immediately and Dean a steady counterweight that holds him up. Something slippery worms its way along his lips and Castiel opens in curiosity. The sensation is insane. It spikes everywhere - and especially to the parts residing between his legs. Sam's hands around his jaw keep him still when he wants to imitate the movements of tongue. Castiel's first instinct is to use his grace and just _take_ his right to move as he pleases - but Dean is secure behind him, his arms and hands keeping him upright against Sam who curls down and in on him, and it's so good and complete that there is _no need_ to hold up any restraints.

So he lets go.

Giving knees are scary at first, but Dean's thighs are strong behind him, warm and stiff and his lap is not any less of these things, just like Sam's. They have him. They hold him. The less grace he uses, the warmer his body gets. A hot thrumming inside of him, just like the brothers' souls. They pulse differently but in perfect harmony, like a melody.

Castiel feels his heartbeat topple over at the rough press of a hand against the front of his dress pants. When he watched the brothers, he had _seen_ their erections, but it never did much for him. Up to now, Castiel hadn't managed to achieve one of his own. It's strange, almost a little uncomfortable with how taut the organ stretches and strains against his clothing. Throbbing is ache, need. Urgency overcomes Castiel and he has to grind against that hand. It retreats then, but Sam's body feels just as good.

Castiel contemplates to get his grace back out and just make everyone's clothes disappear. It seems like a reasonable thing to do. He imagines everything would yet again get so much better with another barrier falling.

The brothers are apparently thinking the exact same. Hands pull his shirt out of his pants and others seem invited by the easier access to his skin; Dean's, Castiel considers. Stomach, chest. Dean nuzzles his neck and Sam unbuttons Castiel's pants. The purr of a zipper, two. Castiel's fingers curl creases into Sam's jacket. Where Sam presses their bodies back together there is blunter heat than before. Castiel is grateful that he does not need to remind himself to breathe.

"Are we doing this?"

His brother sounds unsure and looks like it, too. Seeing, hearing him like this reminds Sam of years and years before this here. Sam can tell Dean in fact wants to, at least a little part of him. "Straight as an arrow" is an understatement for his brother's sexual orientation, yeah. And still, still he does these things sometimes, flirting and acting he didn't mean it that way, accepting drinks, jerking Sam off, taking an angel in male form out to have him fucked, and now bad-touching said angel himself.

Sam licks his lips, gives a swift nod. "Yeah."

Cas is butter in their hands and it's not any better the other way around. There is a faint suspicion that the angel's grace has a major role in this; somehow charming them, maybe. Sam doubts that Dean would have allowed this here to escalate up to this point if he was completely himself. Then again, Dean does these things sometimes.

A slow, tiny step away from the middle of the room and towards the east-western corner; one of the beds. A hesitant look at his brother as a silent question.

Dean stares at him and Sam can see his mind pulling out all the stops. Now, Sam remembers their kiss. They _kissed_. _Them_. His need wavers as fear settles in. Dean will not forget about this, ever. They are way past pushing borders now, are they?

Dean steps back. Hardly leaning into the movement, actually, but Sam takes the chance.

They move across the room. It must look incredibly stupid. Then again, this is a cheap motel and their day job consists of robbing graves and performing satanic rituals. They have done way stupider things, Sam reminds himself; thinks of the Last Seal, stutters his next exhale.

"Sam."

Cas' hands cup his neck and flick at the film of sweat there. In return, Sam's circle the angel's waist and shove down behind it, along his lower back. It's Dean there, Dean's pelvis, and it thrums with his heartbeat. Even through the clothes, Sam can feel it. They don't touch anywhere, usually.

"This okay, Cas?"

"Yes." A shaky sigh against Sam's clavicle. "I enjoy this a lot."

"If you want to stop, say so."

"I will try to remember."

They tip. The bedframe is loud. There are memories to this sound that turn it immediately lewd in Sam's head. He has to kiss, to busy his mouth; finds the angel, then his neck. Dean's eyes are hooded but trained on Sam when he looks for them. His mouth is tight and maybe a little trembling; it is hard to tell in the dark. He kisses it, again. It barely softens, but it does. Sam thinks he might carry his heart on his tongue.

Cas is limp between them all but for his dick. It's funny, somehow, how completely he is able to relax to this. There surely had been a lot of studying invested in that. Sam hears his name when he rolls his hips against that stiff length; good angle, good support thanks to his knee on the mattress. If Cas is even really aware of what is happening, of what he is doing? Sam feels Dean's hands sneak back over Cas' belly, grazing Sam's with his knuckles on their way. He leans into them, lets them dig into his muscles. One hand disappears and comes back as a palm; on Sam's shoulder first, then a bit down his chest, up again - _the naked skin above Sam's collar_. Sam might melt into the touch with his entire body.

Dean tugs at his jacket then and Sam gets up, tosses it to the floor. His fingers hook into his tie's knot to undo it, and he looks down. Two pairs of eyes are on him and his jaw tenses. While Sam feels that new wave of nervous sweat drain from his pores, another four hands start getting busy as well on two other ties. Dean shoves Cas down from and next to himself to wrestle himself out of his suit jacket, then goes for the button-down. Sam gazes at the tattoo, flicks lower. Dean avoids his eyes, obviously ashamed of the bulge he sports. Sam sheds his shirt and helps Cas do the same.

Back in the stacked position, Cas' sigh has Sam's attention. The angel is shaking. His lips part. Sam imagines hearing something Enochian that he doesn't understand. It sounds a lot like _please_.

They dry hump for a while, a slow, maddening rhythm like Sam guesses the angel likes best. It's not his usual style and, as it seems, Dean's neither when he judges by the impatient little sound he hears. Sam closes his eyes at the last discharge of a zipper, finds no physical need to shudder at the sound of fabric rustling and shoving down across skin or his brother's deep, sleepy _mmmh_ , the little twitch to Cas' chin. He kisses his brother, the angel, his brother, until he's growled at and buries his face in sheets and brother-nape-of-the-neck. Dean sighs right next to his ear and Sam could come at that, just like that. He wonders if Dean has any idea of this and prays that he doesn't.

At first, it was impossibly hard to cut out their grunts, the deep voices and lean muscles. And still, here he is, as hard as he can be, and fuck, he is sick, isn't he? He must have known when that thing with Sam started to develop, that there is something inside of him that _enjoys_ this kind of thing. All Dean knows is that Cas' back feels really good against his chest, his earlobe soft against his tongue and his ass pretty hairy but damn fucking hot against his cock. Fuck. If this sensory overload isn't some _serious_ misuse of angel mojo, then he'll be damned.

Everything is intense, warm. Sam is heavy on them with his damned two hundred pounds of idiot little brother and still all it feels like is _great_. Breathing comes easy and thick, almost sweet. Sam's mouth tastes of old coffee and Cas and Dean's last dessert and it's so so so fucking good that if Dean had a little less self-control, he would _lick_ into that mouth.

By holding the angel by his hips, he can slide along the crease of his ass easier; better. He groans into his exhale, presses his eyes shut. This is good. This is _too_ good. Damn this stupid touchy angel and his tree hugging brother and urgh he wants to come so badly that it's almost not fun anymore. Almost.

Cas starts humming little sounds at some point, arms uselessly framing Dean's shoulders. His entire body seems to be kind of liquid, so easy to manipulate and tug and probe into the right position; all soft and pliant. If Cas ever appeared to have swallowed a coat-hanger, he definitely got rid of it. Dean wonders what it was that finally got him going, but only very shortly. Thinking is overrated.

Sam looks happy with rubbing off on their third wheel. Good for him, but Dean decides that if he wants to get off himself, he has to take action into his own hands. The angle is everything but perfect. If he reached over and down Cas' junk, _Sam's_ junk would be in the way. Reaching around Cas' leg strains his wrist… but hey, at least no pair of dicks. He tugs Cas up a bit and gingerly pets his way between his legs. He has tried anal before. Some girls were really into it, like, religiously into it. If Cas wants to feel something, well, Dean is happy to deliver. Cas mutters something and Dean feels his fingers twitch against his naked shoulder, the handprint. He swallows and feels down, lower. Finds. Rubs. Cas' leg pulls back and out, makes more room. Dean feels his pulse climb up his throat.

Sam kisses him then. His tongue startles Dean at first; he chews on it as comeback. His brother splutters his breath. He draws middle and ring over Cas' hole and trembles at the grind of balls over the heel of his thumb.

"You gonna do it?" Dean hears.

"Thinkin' 'bout it," he confesses.

Sam groans. Dean's lip is bitten, sucked at, chewed on.

 _I know_ , Dean thinks. "Sammy," he warns.

"Five seconds," his brother breathes - and gets off of them.

Dean refuses to follow his brother with his eyes, rather concentrates on the angel on himself. The sudden loss of pressure and warmth feels wrong, almost painful. Dean clenches his teeth through it. It definitely takes longer than the promised five seconds and Dean starts cursing his brother in his head.

Knees shift the mattress and cold, slick fingers brush Dean's own. He groans.

"Here," Sam offers. Dean feels those bony fingers push as well as Cas' jolt to it. Sam slips in and the low, almost dangerous hum in Cas' chest feels way too good on Dean's own.

He spreads the lube with his fingers and occasionally drifts to the center where Sam's finger is disappearing, feels the tight ring of muscle clinging and spasming. "Like a damn boy scout," he thinks out loud.

"'Always prepared'," Sam completes with an absent smile, eyes pinned to where he now corkscrews his digit. Nice technique, actually.

Suddenly, Dean wonders if this is his brother's first time with a guy. They don't talk too much about Sam's sexuality since Jess, and prior to Jess there are nearly four blank years Dean has no idea how to fill.

"Hurts, Cas?" Sam is such a girl, seriously. Then again, he is sensitive where Dean runs into doors. They're a good team, maybe.

"It's spectacular, actually." Dean doesn't remember Cas swallowing, ever. Now that he does, it's kind of creepy. "I very much enjoy this, Sam. Thank you."

"… You're welcome, I guess."

Dean laughs. He pets Cas' taint, returns, finds two fingers where there had been only one a second ago. When he looks up, Sam's eyes appear almost matte in the darkness.

"The two of you don't do these things to each other."

A soft smile from his little brother for Cas. "… No."

"I don't understand," Cas murmurs, "It _is_ pleasant, after all."

"We don't swing that way," Dean announces.

Sam's smile wearies. "Yeah," he says, "we don't."

"I see- _Oh_." Must be the third, huh. Sam really does not want to talk right now. Well. Who is Dean to complain?

"Is. Is there _more_ …?" Castiel's own voice sounds unfamiliar to him. All this affects him more than he thought it could. He didn't think they would welcome him and his intentions this freely. When he re-thinks it now, though, that was pretty foolish. This is how they always treat him, after all.

"Yeah, actually," Dean says.

Something nudges where Castiel is already full with Sam's fingers. A surprised noise finds its ways out of his throat. Intercourse, of course. Sexuality _is_ that simple, after all. He is thrilled. Another thing he hasn't seen the brothers do.

There's sudden uneasiness and nobody moves anymore, which is a shame. Castiel figures this could be caused by his lack of approval. "Continue," he croaks. He notices he is trembling. Sweat is something remarkable. Dean's heartbeat against his back could as well be his own.

The retreat of Sam's fingers from his insides is less pleasing than their intrusion. There's a faint burn and the muscles immediately clamp back closed. Sam looks apologetic from between Castiel's legs, to his face and back. There is sadness that Castiel cannot explain, but he knows he wants to ease it. He reaches out and gets as far as Sam's neck before he is breached open once more.

How very different. Wider, hotter. The skin of it is different, too; so smooth. Enochian prayer stumbles from Castiel's mouth because this is beautiful, and Sam gasps at it and Dean groans into his ear and it is so good that Castiel starts to understand why angels are not meant to experience sensation - it is too intense. Too holy. Suddenly, he remembers burning stars, tastes silver and gold on the roof of his mouth, exquisite atoms and it is all triggered by _this_.

Dean holds him firm and lowers, lowers, lowers Castiel until there is nothing left to bury inside. Sam leans in on them maybe because Castiel said his name; he doesn't remember doing it. He is kissed, open-mouthed, says _thank you_ but Sam doesn't understand Enochian and neither does Dean, and Castiel's eyes roll backwards somehow with the tug Dean's and his connection gives to his ridiculously tender insides with a barely-there move.

Loss of control feels good. They hold him. _They hold him._

He has thought about this for years now, of sharing someone. There had been offers but those moments were too small, too ridiculous. Of course, it had been out of the question to ask for this, and no matter how drunk his big brother would get, he would not propose it, either.

And now, this. Cas. That poor angel. They're tainting him, aren't they? Yes, he started this, but he obviously was not aware where it could lead, what it would do to him. Sam has never seen the angel this out of composure. He is barely a puddle of loose flesh and bones, especially with Dean shaking loose every last bit of him.

And Sam is watching. Can watch. It is the closest he can get to his brother. Speculations beyond that are hopeless and Sam is not in the mood for misery. Whatever he can get, he will enjoy.

Dean is almost desperate with how he pounds into Cas. It has been some time, both with girls _and_ Sam's hand. Still, it surprises Sam that Dean gets it up for a guy. It must be shocking for himself, too… which is of course no reason _not_ to rub it in for the rest of their miserable lives.

Sam almost feels the need to remind Dean of _easy, easy_ , but then again, this is one wonderful view. Cas tastes like Dean's mouth when Sam eats at it, as if he had his cock in his _mouth_ instead of his ass. Their teeth bounce against each other under the harsh rhythm. Between their bodies, Sam peels his underwear from his body. His thumb sweeps over the wet tip. Dean's mouth tastes good, so so so good. Cas' hair smells like the bedding in Green Carpet Inn, Oklahoma; like Dean's eighteen-year-old skin and dripping wet swimming trunks.

There is no going back from this here, is it. Once crossed, borders are not existent anymore. Sam was never afraid of jumping fences - Dean would always be waiting on the other side already. But there are fences his brother will not wait behind.

He wants to ask. He wishes, grinds in the need to just do it, just let the words come out. He lost him so many times already; they're just starting to get this here going. He cannot ask for this. He cannot push his luck.

"You next?"

Sam jolts, snaps his eyes open. Dean is panting against his mouth.

"When I'm done," Dean clarifies, "You wanna go next?"

Sam squeezes the base of his cock and counts to three. _He means the angel, he means_ Cas; but oh, these words from this mouth and all for _him_.

"Please," Cas hiccups, pets at Sam's hair, "I would like that; I-I would like that, Sam."

Of course Dean would be risen from Hell by the filthiest wing-equipped being in this universe. Of fucking course. "Alright," Sam croaks. He has a feeling he won't make it that long anymore, though. Two strokes and, nah, yeah, no, that won't happen. But Cas looks happy and tries to kiss him, fails because he can't keep his head still. Sam sandwiches one cheek to Dean's and his palm to the other to pin down the angel. It works like this, of course.

They are pretty together; a righteous man and his angel. Both pretty much out of it, both pretty sweaty. Pretty perfect. Sam kisses them both.

"Shit… Forgot the… Ah damn."

"What?"

"… The condom," Sam realizes.

"It is no- ah, n-no danger to this; Jimmy had no- _oh_!"

"'Clean'," Sam translates.

Dean still looks unhappy. He makes the most adorable faces. " _Still_ ," he insists with gritted teeth. Sam knows his brother takes safe sex very seriously. And yet, he doesn't stop this. So much for willpower.

"Come inside if you want," Sam murmurs, "I don't mind."

His brother groans. Sam's hand on himself gets rougher.

Maybe Cas can come from this. The idea is far more of a turn on than Dean would admit out loud right now. And if not, well, Sam is still there to get the job done, right? Dean is no egoist with the orgasm-deal but he really really really wants to finish, like, yesterday. He wasn't this pent up in forever. It kind of got him off-guard and then drilled itself even deeper into him as soon as he got his dick inside the angel. Mojo, definitely. Damn Cas. It's his own fault.

Not too far out of reach, the sensation is waiting for him already, heavy and full and perfect and Dean wants it to wash over him, to empty and tire him. He wants to sleep and never wake up, at least not to this, the aftermath, the probably stomach-wrenchingly excruciating conversations.

Sam's eyes are so dark that Dean cannot bare to look at them, and maybe it's better not to come while staring into your brother's face. Cas' weight feels good around him, on him. His body gives in the right places for his dick to punch in, all smooth and it's maybe this good because there is no condom but oh God the thought of Sam fucking his come even deeper up into the angel's guts is just-

He mutters something, feels his toes go numb. The weight shifts and Cas mouths at his cheek, cradles the other with a way too sweaty hand. But it's okay. Dean's eyes squeeze shut as his body tenses up.

There's a spark of white light, maybe blue; all warm and in his arms and inside of his body somehow, too. Every heartbeat drives him deeper into Cas, closer, to completion.

There's a scent, salty and thick. It reminds Dean of that one summer in that cottage, just Sam and him and Dean brought _lots_ of girls at that time because Dad was away five out of six weeks and Sam was just a book-loving nerd who had no idea. The scent becomes a taste; his face feels warm, then his lips, mouth.

"Shit," he hears eventually, dull as if through cotton, "Leave your eyes closed, Dean. Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry."

He wants to nod, can't, swallows - realizes. The warm fuzziness in his head receives a bitter aftertaste.

Thumbs wipe at his eyes, then some sort of cloth. "Sorry," Sam repeats.

Cas' weight lifts off of him until his dick slips out, making Dean cringe at the sudden cold. After rubbing his knuckles over his eyes, he dares to blink eventually. "Sammy?" he croaks.

"Sorry," he hears.

"Are you feeling alright, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean lies. Icy blue is on him, all pure and bright.

"Are you hurt? Should I clean you?"

He snorts. "We should ask _you_ that."

"I am fine. Really, I am."

He closes his eyes again, catches his breath, tries not to imagine his brother kneeling over his face with his dick in his hand. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

Instead of disappearing or leaving the bed, Cas remains in the middle of them without creating skin contact. Two sets of breathings become quieter while Cas has none of his own. Dean wished there was a window ajar now to have traffic mute them even more.

His head slowly becomes clearer. After a while, he notices his pants and underwear are still caught around his ankles and bunched up over his shoes. One more sweep of palm over his face, a sigh. When he turns his head to his left, Sam's eyes either were there all the time or he just turned, too. Since Dean usually physically _feels_ his brother looking at him, especially with an expression like that, it must be the latter.

They don't say anything for a while; Sam because he is waiting for Dean to start this, and Dean because he is unable to put any of what has just happened into words.

In the end, it's Sam's voice that breaks the silence, so small that it tears at the rawest places in Dean, the places he keeps the memories of a childhood that wasn't one. "I am so sorry, Dean."

Cas looks asleep which all three of them know is impossible for the angel. But he pretends. Maybe he has seen some movie where they fell asleep after sex, Dean figures, oblivious to the fact that it wasn't a movie he learned it from, that Cas figured silence is what takes place here after watching the two of them drive away from their spots, of them staring at old motel TV's for another half an hour before straying again.

"'S not your fault," Dean hums; considers, makes a face. "Except for the part where you. You know."

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats, more urgent this time.

He lays back again, eyes trained on the ceiling. Every liquid on his skin has dried up by now and leaves an unpleasantly sticky feeling. Dean considers heading for a shower... but that would mean he had to get up... which won't happen, nu-uh. "I can't believe I just banged a guy."

"Technically, I do not have a gender, if that is of any consolation."

"... No, Cas. Not really."

"My apologies." Dean can hear the angel's head flop from side to side, showering each brother with attention and what Dean figures must be bright, glowing eyes. Like a damn child. Or a puppy. Things you don't have sex with. Oh God. "I did enjoy it though. A lot. Can we repeat this in the future?"

He laughs, maybe groans. His own hair feels greasy when Dean runs his fingers through it. "Easy, cowboy; oh God. Let a guy rest."

"That should not be too problematic, as I am very patient." Covers shift under naked skin. Cas curled in on himself. "Can I stay here for the night?"

"Sure," Sam hums.

"Yeah, sure; in _Sam's_ damn bed." They exchange looks and after Dean coughs a laugh, Sam's defenses finally break as well. His laugh sounds wet, a little strangled - but happy. Dean blinks at the ceiling and can breathe freer somehow.

"In your company, any place is fine with me," Cas hums.

 

It is way too early to be up again. But hey, breakfast deal is always a good deal. And also, another witness is waiting to be interviewed. Well, maybe not exactly "waiting", but anyway. Duty calls.

"I have to thank the both of you." Cas beams at them, maybe even a little bit brighter than usually. He needs no sleep, the lucky idiot. "Last night was really educational."

"You're welcome," Dean fake-grins over the table, as far away from the two of them as possible. At least he didn't choose another booth or diner or town altogether. Sam cannot even roll his eyes at that; it's just way too damn early. His brother needs his time to sort out certain things, and last night seems to be one of those. Sam cannot hold back a smile over these thoughts.

"Your grace," Sam starts, thumb circling the edge of his coffee cup, "really is, uh. Wow. It was intense. Kinda got carried away. Sorry."

If Sam looked, he would see Castiel's frown. "My grace was locked. I had no access to it."

"…What?"

"What??"

"I found that if I shut it down, I would be more receptive. That was indeed the case."

"But then… How…"

"This was NOT normal, Cas. Just not. I know what I speak of when I say that this was NOT how sex is like." Dean almost chokes on his scrambled eggs. If he just moved closer, he would not have to lean halfway over the table like an idiot. "I mean, yeah, kind of, but, NO. This was like, CRAZY. Not normal."

"I thought about this, actually." Cas sips his coffee. "Maybe my conserved grace showed more compatibility to your as well physically bound souls."

"… 'Compatibility'?"

"Yes."

"You mean we... like... had _soul-sex_."

"It could be called that way, yes."

"Our souls. Literally."

"And my grace," Cas adds.

Dean sits back. Sam has not stopped staring into the angel's unimpressed face since the beginning of this revelation.

The coffee is still steaming but Cas does not seem bothered by it. He is pretty much like Sam remembers him to be since they got to know him - but he smiles now. Just a tiny bit, but he does. It's almost timid, shy. Maybe excited. "The chances for this to happen are very rare," he tells them.

"Like _soulmates_?" Dean interferes.

"That is the human term for it, yes."

"Huh."

Dean picks up his fork again after a while. Sam watches him, then allows his eyes to wander outside the window, the early rush hour of a usual workday. Opposite to him, he hears Cas have a long, slow swig from his cup.

Unseen, the angel smiles to himself. He is starting to understand the general attraction to this beverage.


End file.
